George Menezes

I do not jog any more. Age, that much feared and ever vigilant phenomenon like the Tax collector, has caught up with me and mercilessly squeezed me dry of much of the energy I had, like the remnants of an over used tube of toothpaste.

But I still walk the Bandra waterfront. Carter Road, Bandstand and the Joggers Park, come rain or shine. But now I walk slowly, deliberately preserving by breath as well as my footfalls as if the treasure God has gifted to me for “caretaking” might suddenly disappear.

And I walk early in the morning or late at night insensitive to lovers sculpted in their own personalized embraces, oblivious to sleeping watchmen, stray dogs and a rare “expat” walking his “German Shepherd” with the right implements for collecting his doggie’s poo.

“Why can’t the other pet owners do likewise?” he asks

“Because”, I say sadly and softly to myself, “we locals walk our dogs but do not walk our talk.”

As he goes out of sight I hear a gentle voice calling me. “You and I need to talk” the voice says. I sit down on the promenade’s retaining wall and look towards the sea. The voice seems to come from the crest of each rising and falling wave.

I am a great conversationalist. Mostly one way. I talk. Others hopefully listen. But the voice I hear now has a ring of urgency. I decide to listen.

“Okay” I say “talk, I am listening”

“Do you see the 18 hole golf course with the English style Club House on the hill ? It was called the Danda Green” I turn to look behind me and see nothing but hideous doors and windows jutting out of masses of concrete structures. I shake my head in dismay.

“That was the time” says the voice “when I had the privilege and complete freedom to wash these shores, foray deep into the uncluttered land dotted with pretty little bungalows with large gardens and orchards that were rented for as little as Rs.30 a month”.

“I have read and heard about how really beautiful Bandra was” I reply, “wrapped around by the glorious blanket of your clean and transparent waters. They tell me people walked to what is the Mahim Causeway to take the ferry to the city”

“That was the real Bandra to celebrate about. Not the one you are celebrating this fortnight” the voice says. Now no longer quiet and gentle but shrill.

“Walk down from The old fort , past Bandstand , Joggers park and down to Carter Road and find a stretch of sand where you can lie down and talk to me leisurely as your previous generations did not long ago”.

“I see couples sitting on the rocks” I say “but I cannot find a stretch of sand even to sit down”.

I hear a roar from the voice and a crash of waves.” The beach has disappeared; sand has been carted away in a million trucks. Mangroves have been destroyed as a result. The cottages have gone. Tall ugly buildings have replaced them”. The voice is getting angry.

I hang my head in shame. We need to stop mocking the sea, I say to myself. I am suddenly afraid. Another day, another time the sea will reclaim the land that was once her own. And our grand children will no longer be safe on the water front.

I try to find a piece of beach to sit down and wet my feet. Through the skeletons of the mangroves festooned with plastic bags and other indefinable waste I spot a stretch of beach. I creep through the mangroves and sit on the sand.

“I have found a tiny spot of beach to sit on and talk to you at leisure” I say to the voice from the sea

“There is much we can share” says the sea.

“After the Tsunami some years ago”, I say, “I am afraid to run carefree into your warm and wet embrace as I used to once in Gorai and Goa. Even the tip of your tongue caressing my feet as I sit here scares me”

“No more Tsunamis please.” I beg “Thousands died and were rendered homeless that 26th December 2004”

“Homeless?” The sea screams back at me. Have you city folks ever given thought to my homelessness? For centuries my playing fields have been dredged. Hundreds of shacks and massive hotels have plundered my territory and made me a prisoner in the home God gifted to me at the time of Creation. The nurseries and cradles of my fish have been desecrated by the destruction of mangroves. You have driven away myriads of birds that once dipped their silken wings upon my breast.”

“God gave you the planet in caretaking. In your greed and arrogance you have ambitions to become the planet’s owner.”

“Don’t take this personally.” The voice continues “I appreciate you for the time you were beaten up trying to stop sand from being taken away from the Gorai beach. I appreciate your friends who are working so hard to save open spaces in Bandra.

“Do not worry about me. Time will heal my wounds. I have powers to heal myself and to rejuvenate. There will come a time when I will reclaim my territory. It will be a time of my choosing. I will select those whom I will destroy and those whom I will save. The Old Testament will be revisited and Celebrate Bandra‘s Space ship will replace Noah’s Ark”

“Tell your grand children and your friend’s grandchildren to come and play on the endless beaches and my wholesome, transparent waters and really celebrate the awakening of a new dawn”